What If
by StarsHideYourFires
Summary: A series of AU stories examining different possible meetings for John and Sherlock. Most recently we have in a hotel bar and as vampire hunters. Rating subject to change based on future chapters.
1. They Met Seventeen Years Earlier

**A/N:** This is going to be a series of different AU meetings for John and Sherlock. The ratings will vary, but most will probably be T due to mentions of drug use or swearing. This chapter is unbeta'd (but not unedited) and unbrit-picked, and I apologize if I've got anything glaringly wrong. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I've just got a DVD set and a few leather-bound books, and am making no profit from this.

…they met seventeen years earlier.

John Watson stumbled into the thick, oak door, fumbling for the knob as his drink-hazy mind hoped he'd managed to find an unoccupied toilet in the ridiculously posh townhouse where his mate, Stamford, had dragged him for a party. Much like the rest of the house this room was too dark for him to see much of anything, but it was far larger than any toilet had the right to be, and John would have left to continue his search had he not noticed a figure rise to its feet and cross a bit closer. Squinting, he made out that the figure was a kid, a bit taller than John was himself, but utterly smooth-faced and gangly, likely about fifteen or so.

"How'd you get in here?" the youth asked, a bit wary of the blonde twenty-year-old that had somehow managed to bungle his way into a room far from the rest of the partiers.

"Door was open," John managed to say without slurring. He squinted, noting the boys dark curls and sharp gaze, and added, "Aren't you a bit young to be here?"

"This is my brother's house."

"Oh." John teetered as the edges of the room got a bit soupy. As a wave of nausea washed through him he sank to his knees as gracefully as his intoxicated brain would allow. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took deep breaths until the desire to expel the contents of his stomach passed. Looking up a thought struck him, "How come you've shut yourself up in this room? When I was your age I'd have done anything for the chance to get pissed at a party."

"I'm supposed to be locked in," the boy drawled. Then he lifted his shirtsleeve to the elbow and presented his pale forearm. "Detoxing."

Had he been sober, John would have found this extreme candor odd, but he currently couldn't focus beyond the bruised track marks that littered the boy's arm. He wanted to say something insightful, or at the very least comforting to this kid who had already done enough hard drugs to merit an intervention. Instead he just said, "Oh," again.

Suddenly feeling intrusive John rose and blurted, "I'll just leave you to—" before another dizzy spell sent him back to his knees. Rather than saying anything the boy simply picked up a plastic tub and brought it to John; the message was clear, _stay as long as you need, just don't vomit on my carpet_.

"Sorry," John mumbled. "I really shouldn't be here. At all. I don't go to parties; I don't get invited to parties. Hell, I don't even usually drink, but a bunch of my mates dragged me here and there wasn't anything else for me to do," he said, as if it made up for his being in the room of a teenager going through withdrawal from what was likely a solid heroin addiction.

"Cocaine." The boy said, pulling John from his thoughts.

"What?"

"It was cocaine, not heroin." Then he added in answer to John's unvoiced question, "I could see you thinking it."

"Alright, slightly creepy Mind Reading Kid," John said, "What am I thinking now?" John then screwed up his face as he looked at the youth, who simply glared at him.

"It's observation, not mind reading. And the name's Sherlock."

"John," he said with a slight nod. Then he added, "You seem pretty lucid for someone just starting to detox."

"You seem pretty perceptive for someone who's too drunk to stand upright," Sherlock countered.

"The bruising's too fresh; your last hit couldn't have been more than a week ago." John then leaned forward, letting his mouth hover over the tub in case his stomach managed to start its proposed revolution against the tyranny of too much lager and not enough chips.

"Why do you think I have a puke bucket in my bedroom? I'm waiting for the symptoms to hit, they just haven't yet." Then he sat down at the foot of his bed. "Is anyone going to come looking for you any time soon?"

John glanced at the wall clocked and worked out, however slowly, that it wasn't yet 10:30. His stomach twisted and he asked, "Are you hungry?"

This time Sherlock was shocked. "What?"

"Are you hungry? I saw a chippy down the street when I came here. If you can get me there I'll buy you something hot and greasy. Who knows, it might be the last meal you manage to keep down for awhile."

"Alright," Sherlock said, almost too cheerily as he stood and moved to John's side in order to help him to his feet.

"And you have to promise not to give me the slip. I don't actually know your brother, but he doesn't seem like the type of person I want angry with me for letting you break house arrest and get your hands on some more coke." John leaned into the boy as he rose to his feet, letting his head rest against the youth's shoulder.

"I promise," Sherlock said as he took John's weight. "Right now food sounds good. My brother isn't particularly interested in keeping anything edible in the house. He's out too often."

Together they made their way through the dark house, avoiding as many drunken partiers as possible, exiting through the back door into an alleyway. The cool night air calmed John, his lungs grateful for a respite from the sour, overly warm breaths he had taken inside. The excess light from the street lamps and moon made him blink for a second before he refocused his gaze on Sherlock. Or rather the portion of Sherlock he could see, which amounted to little more than his left ear, his jaw, and a multitude of near-black curls.

Normally, John didn't like to pry into other people's lives, but he was too curious and too drunk to care. "Why are you staying with your brother to detox? And how'd you get so deep into the drugs that you need to detox? And how come you could tell what I was thinking?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he just kept John walking until they rounded the corner and he pulled him into the chip shop. He leaned John against the back wall, and John pulled out his wallet and gave him a tenner before covering his eyes against the insanely bright fluorescent lights in the shop. A few over-stimulating minutes later Sherlock returned with their paper-wrapped fish and led John out of the shop. They ate together in semi-awkward silence and John could feel the grease and starch soaking up the excess alcohol in his bloodstream. Sherlock had managed to get them to the back step of his brother's home and eased John down while also picking out all of the thinner, crispier chips and setting them on his own tongue.

"My parents didn't want to deal with my… problems and I refused to go to a treatment center," Sherlock said as he sat beside John on the stoop. John just blinked at him a few times with a piece of fish in his mouth. "You asked why I was here. That's the reason. Mummy said she couldn't bear to see it again and Mycroft volunteered his home."

"Again?" John asked after swallowing the slightly vinegary chips he'd been chewing. "How many times have you done this?"

"Just the first time and now; I got clean a couple months ago and then school started again and I got bored." He twirled a chip between his long, pale fingers. "Everyone has always said I'm too smart for my own good. And when there wasn't something interesting for my mind to play with, I went looking for anything to take the edge off. There was a boy in my form who had some coke, I tried it, and it made everything clear, and sharp, and it felt better than being bored." He looked over at John with his pale, pale grey eyes, like he was looking through him. "And like I said, I'm very bright. I'm also very observant. It's easy for me to perceive things—body language, clothing choices, stains—and extrapolate, quite accurately, what they mean. In some cases it looks like mind reading." He turned back to face the alley and slid the chip into his mouth. "And I've only been clean for three days. You were wondering again."

John sat absolutely dumbfounded. "Wow," he said, shifting his own position now that he felt more like himself and less like a plague victim in order to get a better look at the boy with the very odd name and odder skill set. "So, what else can you tell about me?"

Sherlock appraised him for the merest of moments before starting. Then fired off his deductions in rapid succession, "You have an older sister, but you don't have much contact with her as evidenced by the rather old family photo you keep in your wallet. You plan to be a doctor shown through your knowledge of both bruising and drug use, that or you've been around a lot of drug users, but you seemed rather surprised by my anecdotes about my coke habit, so it's far more unlikely. You don't have much money; this," he gestured to the paper-wrapped fried food, "was a bit of a splurge item and you'll avoid going out with your friends for the rest of the week. You have a girlfriend, but you're thinking about breaking it off since you don't love her anymore, also shown by a photo kept in your wallet, it's rather scuffed and pushed behind your ID card, showing it once had a position of prominence, but has since become less important to you."

John's jaw had slowly hinged open as he listened, then, a few seconds after Sherlock finished his deductions he said, "That was bloody brilliant."

Sherlock glanced at him, his left eyebrow quirked. "Really?"

"Yes," John said, "It was amazing; it's like having a super power. Why, do most people think it's weird?"

"I seem to recall your addressing me as 'slightly creepy Mind Reading Kid' earlier tonight," Sherlock said with a smirk playing across his lips.

"I was more than a little bit wasted, and I didn't know that was how you were doing it. Now I do. It's amazing, end of story."

"Well, thank you, I guess. And thanks for the late night chip run. Hopefully I won't throw it all up later tonight."

"Cheers to that, mate."

"Anyway, you shouldn't be hanging out with a fifteen year old drug addict for the rest of the night, John." Sherlock stood, crumpling the now empty, slightly grease-soaked piece of newsprint as he moved towards the door.

"Wait," John said as he moved to his feet, ready to follow, "I feel like I should at least get you back to your room in case you run into your brother on the way back, tell him I let you out."

"You really don't need to take responsibility for my actions." He paused and flashed a genuine smile. "It was nice meeting you, John. You're probably the best person out of everyone at this party to have accidentally wandered into my room tonight, so really, thank you for that. But I can get back safely without Mycroft being any the wiser. Go find your friends, have another pint, and forget about me and my problems." With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode back into the house, leaving John to stare after him until he rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

Several minutes later, John realized he was standing on the back stoop of a ridiculously posh town house where his mates had dragged him to a party. Inside that house was a fifteen-year-old boy who was about to go through the painful process of cocaine withdrawal, placed under house arrest by his older brother because his parents couldn't stand to cope with his addiction again. Also inside that house were vodka shots and several pints of lager that John intended to drink so he could try to obliterate his memory of the sad, lonely, utterly brilliant boy he had tried to help. If he didn't he felt he might go a little bit mad.


	2. They Met During a Zombie Apocalypse

**A/N:** I did my best to make this semi-realistic and sensible, but in some cases I took artistic license in order to make the story in my head make sense. This was also supposed to be about 2,000 words shorter until Sherlock started deducing things on me and it turned into this monster. Most of the rest of these likely won't be this long.

… They Met During a Zombie Apocalypse?

No one knew where the virus came from; some blamed the government, others blamed disease warfare from the fascists/communists/what-have-you, and still others said it was a plague sent by god. It could very well have been a mutation of an already existing disease, perhaps something zoonotic, leaping from mad cow to mad human. But no matter the cause, there were only three ways to survive in the post-zed world: One, ruthlessly protect your living space and food supply by killing anyone and anything that crossed your path; Two, be the dependent of one of the ruthless killers; or Three, find one of the government run safe havens on the old military bases—and be one of the fortunate few let inside the gates. There was no fourth option. One could not get by on luck; luck didn't exist in a post-zed world.

John Watson had been a major in the Royal Army Medical Corps before the outbreak of the virus. He had served two tours in Afghanistan, and had been on base when the first cases were reported to the World Health Organization. That saved his life. If he'd been one of the poor bastards stationed in a war zone he never would have made it back to Britain.

Still, the whole world went to shit pretty fast because the virus took about 72 hours to gestate, more than enough time for people to get on planes, trains, and busses and bring it everywhere in the world before anyone even knew about it. Africa was hit worst: no broadcasts had come from there in over six months. Some claimed that northern islands, like Iceland and Greenland were relatively zed free since the climates and lack of space would not support their survival, but no one had proof.

Zero Day, the day before the virus surfaced, was precisely 147 days ago. On Day 1 John had been deemed high priority survival status—along with agriculturalists, engineers, and children over the age of ten, and just below healthy women of reproductive age—because he was a doctor with a lot of surgical experience under stressful conditions. This meant he had been given charge of the base hospital and was kept far away from the perimeter. It also meant most of his food came prepackaged, boiled, or half-burned. On Day 147 he wanted nothing more than to go for a stroll through a garden and eat a crisp apple, but his days eating fresh fruit were long in the past until someone managed to find a cure or all the zeds died.

Day 147 held significance because Haven Base Salisbury received its first incoming aircraft in nearly three months; each of Britain's military controlled bases had enough food to support its population for nine months under the strict rationing schedule they followed, so outside of medical supply runs no air traffic was necessary. John had been summoned by a lieutenant on orders from Colonel Davison to meet the helicopter, and he'd tugged on his dark blue beret as he exited his quarters and strode out to the landing pad, ready to tell an uppity government official or marine that he didn't have any supplies to spare.

Upon reaching the helipad, John waited at attention for what would likely be a superior officer with demands. Then, contrary to every possibility he had foreseen, a tall man wearing very possibly the only tweed suit remaining to civilization appeared in the doorway. He stepped down and crossed to John. "Major Watson, I presume," he said.

"Yes, sir," John answered, "And I can assure you that I don't have any medicines or vaccinations for you to take Mr…"

"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes, MP. And I haven't come here to raid your stores Major Watson. I am here because you are the best living surgeon in Britain—you were one of the best even before this outbreak killed off the majority of the surgeons in Britain. I require your services as such." Mycroft Holmes, MP then walked back to the helicopter, gesturing for John to follow. Looking in the door he saw a man with dark curls strapped to a gurney, his face contorted in pain even though his breathing told John he was unconscious.

"May I ask what happened, Sir?" John asked as he leaned against the door frame.

"He fell from a watchtower about an hour ago; it appears he's punctured a lung," Mr. Holmes said. "Can you be prepped for surgery in ten minutes?"

"For a punctured lung? Just dealing with the internal bleeding will be difficult enough, but I don't have the staff for it."

"I know, but can you do it?"

"Yes. At the very least I'll do everything I can to bring him through." He then turned on his heel and started back towards the base hospital at a run to start his surgical prep and find as many qualified support staff members as he could.

Hours later, John emerged from the operating room after pulling off his blood covered gloves. An expectant and exhausted Mycroft Holmes sat in a metal folding chair just down the hall, waiting for him. "And?" he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

"He's stabilized. I managed to set the rib and stop the internal bleeding, but the treatment for a deflated lung will take a good while longer. I wouldn't recommend moving him for the next six weeks at least." John sat down in the chair next to this strange, powerful man, keeping his gaze directed at the ground. "So would you mind telling me whose life I've just saved?"

Mr. Holmes coughed, clearing his throat before answering. "He is one of the most brilliant biochemists in the world. He's working with a team to isolate the virus, synthesize a vaccine, and hopefully a cure one day." He then turned his gaze to the double doors leading to the operating room. Rubbing at the corners of his eyes he added, "He is also my younger brother."

John shrugged his shoulders as he stood and crossed in front of Mycroft Holmes and down the hall. "I knew he had to be somebody special," he murmured. "He's been moved to recovery; he probably won't wake up for a few hours yet, but you can see him now if you like." The tall, tweedy man rose to his feet and followed close behind John as they made their way down the hallway, and together they turned into a dimly lit room filled with beeping and whirring machines.

The younger Holmes lay in the bed, his body covered in tubes and wires as he took slow, shaky, shallow breaths. John quickly checked the read-outs on the monitors behind him while running a rudimentary diagnostic, checking pulse, body temperature, and respiration rate with a few small touches. Then John turned to ponder the man who had pulled a chair up to his brother's bedside and placed his fingers lightly along the back of a pale hand. Mycroft Holmes's brow had knit together in worry and frustration, but his eyes remained soft and caring.

"I know he doesn't look it," John volunteered, "But he should make a full recovery."

"Thank you for that, Major Watson," Mycroft Holmes said glancing up before returning his attention to his brother.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes; I was simply fulfilling my oath, to serve Queen and country while first doing no harm." This drew a smirk from the MP. John moved towards the door, ready to return to his quarters and put on clean clothes. "I'll leave you to your privacy then, Mr. Holmes."

This drew Mycroft's attention and he looked up, turning his head as he said, "Major, you will continue to oversee my brother's treatment, yes?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

Later that evening John was making his rounds and checking on the few patients he had before moving to Holmes's recovery room. Mycroft Holmes looked to have fallen asleep at some point by the rumpling of his shirt, but he was upright and awake in his chair when John entered. "Has he woken up yet, Mr. Holmes?"

"No he hasn't."

"That's quite to be expected," he said, stepping over to do his diagnostic check and as his cool hands touched the warm flesh above the younger Holmes's pulse point he heard a soft moaning. "Well, it looks like I showed up at the right time."

"Where am I?" the prone man asked, his baritone coming out as little more than a wheeze.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, "There was an accident. You fell. You fell and you needed emergency surgery. You hit your head pretty hard, and you're being treated for a punctured lung. We're at the Salisbury Base right now. You're going to be fine, Sherlock, and once you've recovered you can return to your work." He took hold of his brother's hand as he spoke.

"Why Salisbury?" Sherlock Holmes murmured, fighting to keep his eyelids from closing again.

"Because the very best surgeon is here," Mycroft said waving his hand so John would move closer. "This is Major John Watson. He saved your life."

"Thank you, Major," Sherlock whispered.

"Please call me John, you'll still be here for a good six weeks, and I think we can forego formalities for the duration." Then John took hold of Sherlock's wrist, counting his pulse, and asked, "How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes? Other than groggy, which should be expected; how does it feel to breathe?"

Sherlock drew in another shaky breath so he could answer, "Painful… breathing is painful. I feel very heavy… and stiff… right now. How long have I been… unconscious?" Beads of perspiration formed on Sherlock's brow with the effort of speaking.

"I'd guess somewhere around nine hours," John answered, casting a look towards Mycroft who nodded in confirmation. "And it looks like you're about to go right back to it."

"It appears you are correct, John," Sherlock said as his eyes drifted shut.

Mycroft managed to stay with his brother for the next five days before he received a transmission and had to return to Edinburgh, the current seat of the British Government. "John," he said as the two men walked to the helipad, "I will return in five weeks. I know you'll take marvelous care of my brother, but he will get bored and eventually become intolerable because of it; when that happens, feel free to sedate him."

"I'll keep it in mind," John replied. "Take care of yourself, Mycroft," he added while shaking the other man's hand. Then Mycroft stepped back, moving to depart.

"Same to you, Major," Mycroft said with a smile as he stepped into the helicopter. John saluted just before the MP turned his back in order to sit down and Mycroft raised his hand in acknowledgement; a simple farewell between friends in a complicated world.

As the rotator blades roared to life, John could faintly hear the screams of zeds in a frenzy. This was news, as their perimeter had been zed-free for nearly a fortnight. Wishing to escape the sound, John returned to the hospital at double-time, passing a guard squadron on its way to the wall. A part of him longed to pick up his Browning and follow them, get a chance to use his skills as a marksman. Another, darker part was tempted to hurl through a gate into the open and take his chances at a dead run through the countryside until he found somewhere new to hide. He knew he'd never make it more than ninety meters without getting killed or infected by a zed. But the temptation remained, just so he could get away from this base, with people he could no longer stand, food he hated, and stifling rules that made him long to rebel.

Upon reaching his office, one of the few luxury spaces permitted on base, John heard his intercom buzz and responded quickly, "Yes?"

"John, Mr. Holmes is asking for you. He doesn't appear to be in any excessive pain and his respiration is normal, but he says it's urgent," said the slightly tinny, female voice from the black and silver box.

John smirked and shook his head. "Tell him I'll be there in a moment, Christine. I hope he hasn't been too much a bother; his brother said he can get… difficult when he's bored."

"Oh, no, not a bother, he's only just become quite insistent that you come now."

"Alright, I'm on my way." From everything he'd heard from Mycroft, John knew it was best not to keep Sherlock waiting so he hurried through the hallways, managing to come into contact with four of his orderlies, most of whom belonged on the guard line but had been transferred to cope with the lack of medical technicians on hand on Day One. He nodded as he passed each of them, and they each gave a quick salute, pausing briefly before continuing to their destinations.

When he reached the recovery room John saw that Nurse Chapel had already left and Sherlock was sitting upright, his long fingers steepled in front of his face. His eyes were closed, but they snapped open as he turned to face the door and say, "Hello, John." He smiled as he said it, a brief flash that quickly returned to his deadpan stare.

"Hello, Sherlock, can you tell me what was so important?" John crossed and settled into the chair that Mycroft had occupied for much of his stay. He looked at his patient expectantly, lips pursed and eyes wide.

"John, I'm bored. As far as I have seen, you are the only person on this base worth talking to, and I wish to discuss a theory with you." His grey eyes closed again as he turned to face forward.

"Sherlock, you're five days off surgery to repair a punctured lung. You have the follow-up surgery in two weeks. How do you even have the strength to sit up, let alone be bored?" John shook his head as he touched his index finger to his temple, marveling at Sherlock's strange predicament even though Mycroft had warned him this would happen.

"Doesn't take much energy to be bored, John," Sherlock said, his tone clearly saying _for a doctor you are quite dim, please try to keep up_. "My brain needs work or it will atrophy. Do you want to be responsible for that, Major?" His lips quirked into a half-smile as John scowled at him. "Now, may I put forth my theory?"

"Yes, alright. I can't guarantee I'll be able to keep up with the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes, but I'll listen."

"It's not that complex and it involves you; I think you'll do just fine following my reasoning." Sherlock then twisted at the waist to face John, his eyes focused with inhuman clarity as he spoke, "From what I've observed, you are just as bored here as I am, John. You're very good at playing normal now, but you want more than the protection of concrete walls and three pre-packaged meals a day. Your eyes are distant when you converse with your staff, and you've been spending far more time in my room than necessary. I can only conclude that you are terribly bored with this place."

John's lips quirked as he spoke, "So what if I am? Life as a high priority survival status citizen on a base is boring for most people."

"Yes, but most people are fine with maintaining their safety, no matter how dull their lives." He tilted his head forward, "But you, John, you are bored to death with it."

"Yeah," he said, "I guess I am." The answering grin on Sherlock's face was almost terrifying.

John found that admitting to his hatred of everything about his life on base on Day 152 lifted his spirits. He didn't feel quite as dead inside either now that he had Sherlock to talk to every day. For the first time since the virus, John had a real friend, and somehow, he wasn't nearly as intolerable as Mycroft had claimed.

Sherlock and John spent most days together, working through Sherlock's observations of and theories about the rest of the staff and personnel that he had encountered. He underwent the follow-up surgery to remove the tube from his once deflated lung and recovery with little trouble or interruption to his conversations with John. Then, on day 183, six days before Mycroft was due to return to collect his brother, Sherlock told John he had come to some very important conclusions regarding his injuries.

"John," he said shifting his position on the chair that he took great pleasure in sitting in since the doctor had given him the go-ahead the previous week, "My brother told you that I was injured falling from a watchtower; were my wounds concurrent with that explanation?"

John hesitated before answering, confusion furrowing the lines on his forehead and around his eyes. "Yes, they were," he said, "A fall from standard watchtower height could very easily have caused the damage you sustained."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, you aren't looking at all the facts, John. Why was my head injury so easily written off as not being a concussion? Why didn't I sustain any injuries to my forearms from attempting to brace for impact? Why were my only serious injuries heavy bruising on my torso and the breakage of two ribs, one of which punctured my left lung? Why weren't there any others?" Sherlock paused for breath, letting John gape at him before he continued. "You are obviously more observant than most people, John, and a highly skilled doctor, but when it comes to noticing what is quite importantly absent you are just as blind as everyone else."

"But why would Mycroft lie about how you were injured? And don't you remember what happened yourself?" John asked. He rubbed at the back of his neck, still puzzling over what this could possibly mean.

"There, now you're catching on, Major. So tell me, in your experience, what could have caused an injury like mine?" He smiled again, this one firmly affixed on his face, his expression almost gleeful as he spoke.

John closed his eyes, dragging a palm down his right check before answering with, "I've bandaged enough guys after bar fights to recognize someone who's been pummeled. From the severity of the bruising and breaks I'd say someone either took a few swings at you with a cricket bat or kicked you around for a bit."

"Yes, that's what I expected too, until I found this," Sherlock said as he pulled at the waistband of the scrubs John had allowed him to wear in place of a hospital gown and revealed a neat row of stitches running over a jagged, parabolic scar just above his hip. John wasn't surprised he hadn't seen it before; he'd been far more concerned with Sherlock's chest and hadn't had reason to look lower. "I can't explain my memory loss, but I do remember that Molly and I had made a significant breakthrough; we had a serum ready for rodent testing. Everything after that get's…" he trailed off, searching for the word before producing, "Blurry. And there's quite a bit of blur; I don't know how much time I've lost."

John leaned forward to tentatively touch his fingers to the thread-closed wound. "Sherlock, don't get hasty, a scar like this could have been caused by any number of things."

Sherlock shook his head, "I've seen enough marks like this, and I'm guessing you have too, John. You know the most likely scenario."

"But it's not possible. No one is immune to the virus, and a serum for rodent trials isn't a working cure. There's no way you've survived a zed attack. Besides, wouldn't Mycroft have at least taken the possibility you would start deteriorating into consideration?"

"Why do you think he stayed as long as he did!" Sherlock snapped. John slouched in his chair as his mouth went slack and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Sherlock shifted, drawing his knees up to his chest and wincing as his leg brushed the surgical scar on his side.

"Feet on the floor, Sherlock," John said, letting the doctor in him over shadow his concern and confusion for a moment. "You know the rules, sit normally or back to bed."

"I don't need your mothering right now, John. We have something far more important to worry about," Sherlock said, long arms wrapping around his legs in defiance.

"No, we don't, because I don't have the appropriate equipment to test this, I don't even know what I'd be looking for in the blood work, or if any of it would still be there more than a month later." John stood. "Speculation won't do us any good, and I still need time to get my mind around all of this." He moved towards the door.

"John, wait," Sherlock blurted. John turned to see him lower his feet to the floor. "You're right; I can't prove anything without getting back to my lab. But could you stay? I don't have anything to do until I can leave this room, and I can't leave until you give me the okay." He pressed his lips tightly together and looked upwards in a pathetic attempt at looking pitiable.

"Don't act like I don't know that you've been wandering the halls at night. My staff might be too slow to realize you shouldn't be moving around, but that doesn't mean I am."

"If you know, then why won't you just take me off of bed rest?"

"Because," John said, exasperated as he crossed back to his chair and sat down, "I'm still your doctor, Sherlock, and I can't take you off bed rest until I can tell you're healing properly."

Sherlock pouted, his full lips curving downward as he stood, leaning most of his weight on the arm of his chair. His breath hissed out as he took a step towards his bed, with its freshly done hospital corners mocking him as he did. He looked back at John who had previously rushed to help him move from place to place; now he remained in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, a look of complete serenity on his face. Sherlock huffed out another breath, this time in frustration. "Fine," he said, "No more walking around without permission."

"Good," John said, standing and quickly crossing the room to assist him, letting Sherlock lean against him before steadying his descent to the bed. "I'll stay here as long as I'm able, Sherlock, to stave off your boredom or whatever this is, but no more talk of a possible cure, if someone were to overhear us there'd be mass panic."

"Of course, I understand, John." Sherlock let his lips quirk into a smile before asking John if he had found anymore mystery novels around the base. He'd already read the five that John had managed to procure from colleagues, but he needed more to handle the long hours when John was gone, either doing his rounds or sleeping. John hadn't managed to track anymore down. Sherlock grimaced at the prospect of another night counting the primes as high as he could when there was a knock at the door.

John answered it to find a private standing at attention. "Orders from Major General Stewart, sir!" he said as he held out a folded sheet of paper for the doctor. Taking it gingerly, John dismissed the private who saluted before leaving.

His eyes going wide as he read, John turned to Sherlock and asked, "Did you know about this?"

"Know about what?" Sherlock asked, confused as to how he could possibly be aware of orders from John's superiors.

"I've been transferred! No one has been transferred off this base in almost five months, not since the reshuffle towards the beginning of this mess, and now I've been transferred to Edinburgh. I'm to leave with you on Wednesday." His hands were shaking as he passed the paper into Sherlock's outstretched hand. His expression went stony as a new thought occurred to him, "You're brother isn't going to have me locked up for knowing what happened to you, is he? Or killed?"

"John, you said yourself that we cannot be sure as to the cause of my injuries, and I highly doubt Mycroft would waste so useful an asset," Sherlock scoffed. "I'm sure your transfer was orchestrated on your merits as a superior surgeon and the need for your continued assistance in my recovery."

"Yes," John said, his voice pitching up ever so slightly, "I'm sure that's all. Nothing to worry about then."

On Day 189—a bright and clear day with only the slightest whiff of decaying flesh blowing in from beyond the walls—John stood by the helipad with his duffle and pack, along with Sherlock, now dressed in a spare pair of fatigues since he refused to wear his scrubs any longer. He had consented to wait in a wheelchair in order to appease John. After a great deal of noise and wind blowing their hair about, the CH-47 Chinook landed and Mycroft exited, walking to his brother with a muted smile on his thin lips. The Holmes's shared a nod before Mycroft turned to John. "It's good to see you again, Major Watson. I hope you aren't disappointed to be leaving Salisbury," he said jovially.

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes; I'm looking forward to the change in scenery," John responded, keeping his tone even and warm.

"May we skip over the rest of the formalities and social niceties, Mycroft," Sherlock asked, "And just get back to Edinburgh? I have work to do." His mouth was drawn into a hard line and his eyes were hooded with boredom.

Instead of speaking, Mycroft simply walked behind his brother and pushed him to the door instead of waiting for an aide. John followed; just under an hour later they had landed in Edinburgh.

A woman with mousy curls and dark eyes was waiting for them, a smile blossoming on her face when Sherlock emerged from the helicopter. John observed their reunion with a smile and a little confusion. Sherlock smiled when he spoke to her and she flushed as she bent to awkwardly plant a kiss on his cheek, but Sherlock had said on more than one occasion that women weren't his "area" and that he cared far more for a good puzzle than for people.

John turned to Mycroft, ready to give him a final thank you before seeking out the base hospital or a superior officer to give him his new orders, but the other man stopped him before he could form the first word. "Come along then, John. We have some very important work to do this morning, and it may very well change our lives for the better." He strolled on ahead with his much longer legs, leaving John to trot after him.

Together they caught up to Sherlock and the curly-haired woman, who Mycroft introduced as Dr. Molly Hooper. "Pleasure to meet you, Major Watson," she said as she shook his hand, "Mr. Holmes said you'd be joining us. He's told us quite a bit about you." Her eyes were doe-y and wide as she spoke, and John could feel her appraisal crawling over his skin.

"Thanks, I think," John said, a little taken aback at both her words and her actions.

"Don't worry, everything has been good. Your service record is impeccable and you're quite the doctor, repairing a punctured lung without a proper support staff and in an under stocked hospital is amazing" she said in a hurry. Sherlock made a sharp gasping sound in the back of his throat and John had come to know him well enough to realize he was holding back a laugh. John glared daggers into the back of his head, but shook off his irritation as they reached their destination.

Upon entering the dull, grey, windowless building Dr. Hooper took the lead, taking them through a series of hallways until coming to a lab that would have been state of the art before the fall of civilization and bordered on futuristic in the post-zed era. As soon as they entered, Dr. Hooper went about prepping Sherlock's arm and drawing several vials of blood.

"I take it you've worked everything out," Mycroft said as he sat in a chair opposite his brother, "And that you have shared your findings with John."

"Most of it," Sherlock said, his face even paler, any hint of color drained from his face. "But I don't _remember_ any of it," he added, his insanely bluish, impossibly pale yet colorful eyes staring directly into his brother's. "What happened?"

Dr. Hooper stepped forward then, "We had a lot of it worked out, and the rodent trials were promising, but we didn't have any stellar results, maybe thirty percent immunization success. Then, nearly three months ago, a man came to the gates, covered in bites and badly injured. But he was still perfectly cogent. He could speak, and the first thing he said was, 'I think I'm immune.' We ran some tests, and there was a mutagen in his blood that prevented the virus from affecting him. He ended up dying a week later from the damage to his internal organs, but he stayed sane, he wasn't infected.

"You managed to turn the mutagen into a serum, which we tested again, and this time the results were very good, but we didn't have any suitable candidates coming forward for a viable human test, so you volunteered yourself. God, Sherlock, you were so certain it was correct. And you took the vaccine injection, waited a week and a half, and then injected the virus. Seventy-two hours later you were fine. But you didn't think that was good enough." Her face flushed as she finished.

Then Mycroft chimed in, "You came to me, asking to be exposed to the infected we were holding for study. But when we went to their bunker, the guards informed us they had finally killed one another the previous night, and no patrols would be leaving base for a few days." His tone was somehow both harsh and gentle as he passively told Sherlock of the days he had lost from his memory.

"So you insisted on going beyond the wall to tempt a zed into biting you," John said to Sherlock, his voice tight with shock and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That's what it was, wasn't it," he said turning to Mycroft, who nodded. "God, you honestly have a pathological need to prove you're brilliant, don't you?" he said, attention returning to Sherlock, staring down with an icy fury at this strange man he had come to care for over the past month and a half. "Why couldn't you just wait?"

"I'm stubborn about these things, John. About everything really," he said, the slightest hint of an apology laying over his tone.

"Either way," Mycroft said, "Sherlock is living proof that his vaccine works. If we can get a few more trials, these ones more controlled, then we may be able to get this shipped out across the country, try to contact other emergency seats of power. Take our world back."

"And then what?" John asked, almost unable to imagine what real society was like after years in the army and six months after the end of civilization.

"Who knows," Sherlock responded, a glint in his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet, "We need to take a few steps before we get there anyway."


	3. They Met in the Old West

**A/N:** I'm sorry that I've been slow to update, but this idea was a lot harder for me to pull out than I expected, I think because I have difficulty writing dialogue for these characters that is meant to be said with an American accent; it threw me. And I'm probably going to keep being slow since Wednesday is my final first day of college so my life will get suddenly busy. But I do have about seven more plans for this **What If…** series, so it'll keep coming and hopefully you won't get too bored reading about two people meeting each other over and over again.

As before this is unbeta'd (but not unedited), so I apologize for any glaring errors, and constructive criticism is always welcome.

* * *

><p>…They Met in the Old West<p>

**1878 - River's Edge, Colorado**

The tall, dark haired stranger rides into town on a Friday evening, his black hat pulled low over his brow to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, and chalky, grey dust coats the bottom of his long coat. Few people notice his arrival as the small town has little to offer travelers, and very nearly less to offer the townsfolk. In fact, only one person observes as he dismounts and hitches his horse to one of the posts outside the saloon, and Doc Watson, while intrigued, knows better than to approach the strange folk who pass through River's Edge. Still, he watches as the stranger strides into the saloon, only to hear a gunshot ring out moments later.

This should not surprise him; most of the town's residents are either cowboys waiting for the next cattle drive or men with dark pasts who went west to hide from them. Those are the kind of men that tend to accumulate enemies, and he has seen plenty of them get shot over petty squabbles. As he ponders this he hears a shrill scream and another three shots, prompting him to run from the barber's where he has been waiting for a shave. He runs first into the saloon, only to see panicked looks on the faces of the few young men playing cards and that of the barman. Doc Watson pauses, attempting to catch his breath, and runs to the back entrance, finding himself directly behind the dark stranger who has knelt down beside what looks like a body; his hand had just gone into the pocket of his coat.

Watson pulls his revolver from his holster and holds it level on the man's back. "Stand and turn," he says, his voice calm and authoritative, "Real slow." The man looks back over his shoulder and does as ordered when he spots the pistol trained upon him at so close a range. He keeps his hands at his sides which makes Watson nervous. "Who are you?" he asks, "And why'd you come here?"

"I heard the gunshots," the man answers, "And the screaming. No one else looked to be investigating, so I figured I'd check it out." He ran an appraising gaze over the man who could very easily shoot him, and after a moment his expression snaps to one of understanding. "So you aren't a lawman, but you were military, that's what threw me… You aren't from here."

"Nobody's from here," Watson says, confusion and frustration heavy in his tone. Keeping his pistol pointed at the stranger, he reaches up to swipe a tanned hand along his brow, under the brim of his black bowler. "This town hasn't been here long enough for anyone to be from here. Barker only just got his ranch started five years ago," he adds.

"Well, obviously," the man says, "This town practically smells new, the timber is obviously rather fresh. No, I meant you aren't a man of the frontier, and you aren't a permanent resident of this particular town."

"Well, no, but not many are," Watson says, now more confused than ever.

"You're a doctor, and you travel rather extensively between several of the towns in the area, don't you? And you must have been very young when you served in Mr. Lincoln's army." Watson's head is swimming as he watches the man look down at what he knows are bodies, of at least one man and one woman, judging by the trousered legs he can see and the scream he heard only minutes earlier. "Now, Doctor, I can assure you that I don't know anyone in this town, but we've got a murderer on the loose. Where is your sheriff?"

"Don't got one," Watson answers. "Anything bad enough happens we have to call in the rangers, but usually, Mr. Barker handles the minor disputes. He has all the money so he has the power." The shorter man shrugs as he looks up at the stranger who still hasn't revealed his name. "And right now I'm fixin' to take you to see Mr. Barker, since you're still standing over those bodies."

"Doctor," he says coolly, "I can promise that I didn't shoot them, you can go ask the barkeep and he'll tell you I was in there until after the last shot was fired, so I'd prefer if you'd lower your Peacemaker." Watson does, allowing the barrel to tilt toward the ground until he can relax his arms enough to return the six-shooter to his holster. "The name's Holmes," he says as he reaches his right hand forward.

"Watson," the doctor says as he shakes Holmes's hand, eying the pistol that hangs at his thigh below his duster, revealed as the fabric rises with the wearer's arm. The he steps forward and past the strange man who has somehow figured out his basic life story just from looking at him, too preoccupied with the recently gunned down people in front of him.

The man on the ground is Billy Evans, little more than a boy really, and one of Barker's cattle hands. A good man, a man without enemies. The previous winter Doc Watson had been called when Billy took a bad tumble and broke his wrist. Now Billy lay dead before him, a dark red blossom directly above his heart and a black, wet patch in the dust beneath him. His eyes are still open. Beside him is a woman, and the doctor only knows her as Sarabeth, one of the girls who works at the saloon at night; Billy had been sweet on her if talk around town was to be believed. Watson figures the current situation proves it. She has two bullet holes in her chest, one high, near her bare clavicle, and one low, just above her last rib. The third bullet must have missed, likely buried in a wall now.

The doctor looks over his shoulder at Holmes, and sees that the man is looking just as intently at the bodies. "I should take them to the barber, he's got a surgery in the back, closest I can get to a proper morgue here," Watson says.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but you and I have more pressing matters," Holmes answers. He then runs back inside the saloon and returns with the card players, friends of Billy's. He tells them what to do with the bodies and then sends them on their way. Jack Tate—Watson dug a bullet out of his shoulder two summers ago—has tears in his eyes as he lifts Billy's legs. Watson watches the young men take away the bodies, and he feels a wave of nausea wash over him; for the briefest moments he sees a body strewn field and he can smell the burning black powder, smoke billowing on the—

"Doctor," Holmes almost barks in order to get the other man's attention. "You said Barker was the man to see if anything happened in town, I say we go and see him then."

"Alright. Yes," Watson agrees. Together they walk around the saloon, back to the main street and Holmes retrieves his grey from the hitching post while Watson, not having time to fetch his own horse, takes Billy Evans's mustang from its post down the street.

Watson rides hard and fast to keep up with the strange man, barely managing to keep his mind focused on the task at hand as he wonders where Holmes came from and what business he could possibly have in a cattle town like River's Edge.

When Barker's ranch comes into view, Watson sees that word has already reached the cattle men; ten ranch hands are posted at the gate, firearms at the ready.

"Mr. Holmes," Watson asks, "What exactly are you planning on telling Barker?"

"That one of his men has been murdered, along with a young woman, and that something needs to be done about it." The answer is cool, calm, and very straightforward, as if he is following a strict and familiar procedure. Not sure how to continue, Watson remains silent until they reach the gate, where he uses his familiarity with the men in order to get them onto the property.

And then Holmes does exactly what he said he would, telling the grey-haired cattleman about the murder he and Watson very nearly witnessed and saying something must be done.

"That's all very well and good, Mr. Holmes, was it?" Barker says, "But there's no sheriff in this town, and I'm keeping the rest of my men here for their own protection. So I don't know what exactly it is that you want me to do." He tilts his chin up with the imperious air of a man who knows he can buy every man in the room and stares down the stranger who has come with the only decent doctor for miles.

Holmes gives Barker a smile that is little more than the slightest twinge of his lips before saying, "I'm sorry, but I heard you were the man with the most authority in these parts and I guess I wasn't clear. I'm offering my services."

"What?" Barker asks.

"I'll find this murderer, Mr. Barker," Holmes says, "And I'll do it fast."

At this Barker laughs, "You want to go and play at lawman, son, I ain't gonna stop you. Hell, make it official, you can be sheriff for all I care, but don't expect any extra help from me or my men."

Holmes simply narrows his gaze and says, "Wasn't planning on it; I only require the services of the good doctor, as he will be able to complete a far better medical examination than I could of the victims." Then he pinches the brim of his hat as he nods, adding, "Please continue with your hiding," and he turns, striding away from the grizzled cattle man as his duster flaps around his gangly legs. As he reaches the door he calls, "Come along, Doctor," over his shoulder. Watson gives his own fleeting nod to Barker before catching up with his mysterious new companion.

Upon returning to the main bit of River's Edge, the two men go straight to the barber's back room surgery and the doctor sets about a simple examination of the bodies. Cause of death is obvious as he looks over Sarabeth, but he notices an unexpected wound on the back of Billy's head, looking like he had been clubbed with the butt of a pistol. When he points it out to Holmes the man's eyes light up as he leans in to take a closer look.

"Would you say this blow could have killed him?" he asks, fixing his pale eyes on the doctor.

"It is entirely possible," Watson answers, "At the very least it would have knocked him out, but the shot to the chest was likely just a means of ensuring he was dead." He turns away as he packs up his medical bag, returned to him by the barber, and clears his throat. "Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?"

"You know the people of this town. I was hoping you could help me with the remainder of the investigation. You'll be far better at gaining their trust than I could on my own," Holmes says.

"I don't know how true that is," Watson says, a hint of weariness in his tone as he returns his bowler to his head. "Folks here let me treat them, but they don't talk to me much beyond that. There isn't much trust in a place like this."

Holmes huffs a little as he shifts himself over a few feet, putting himself between Watson and the door. "But you still know the people here, can tell me a bit about them that I may not notice on my own."

Watson raises an eyebrow at this and tenses his hand around the handle of his bag. "I highly doubt, Mr. Holmes, that there is much of anything you can't figure out about a person. I don't know how you did, but you got everything important about me within five minutes of seeing me," he says.

"It's easy enough to read your military background in your stance and your belt buckle; your weapon alerted me to fact that you remained with the army at least another nine years which means something else entirely, but I'd wager you did so in order to finish your medical training with the surgeon you worked under, and then it was a career you could live on. I extrapolated your medical training from the fact that you ran toward the shots, ready to respond quickly the way you would have on the battlefield. Your accent and the fact that it's unlikely a town as small as this has a permanent doctor told me the rest." Holmes says all this with such exasperation dripping from the words that Watson feels as though he is being scolded for forgetting his times tables.

The two men look at each other for a moment before Holmes adds, "And I still feel you will be a great deal of help to me on this investigation, if only because you knew the victims and I did not."

"But how is that going to catch the killer? Understanding motivations only goes so far, Holmes."

The taller man smiles, "Yes, but that's the interesting part. I can already tell you the shooter was a man of above average height and that he will be very easy to find since the girl managed to shoot him, likely in the shoulder." He then pulls a Remington derringer out of his pocket and hands the small pistol to the astonished doctor.

"Don't you think this is something you should have mentioned earlier?" Watson asked as he intently studies the weapon, noting that both its barrels are empty. "But, she should only have been able to fire one shot," he says, confusion clouding his features.

"She may have fired at the same time as her killer; the sound change wouldn't be different enough for you to notice if the timing were right. Or she only had one barrel loaded." Holmes crosses closer to Watson before brushing past him to look down into Billy Evans's face. "And I didn't mention it because you had a gun on me and I didn't want to startle you. Then I had a plan I needed to work through. And you know now…" He shrugs and moves toward the door.

"So we're honestly looking for a tall man who's been shot? Where was the blood then?" Watson crosses his arms over his chest as he follows behind Holmes to the exit.

"He must have held his hand over the wound as he ran off since there was no extra blood on the ground, but there's a smear of it on the side of the saloon."

Watson frowns. "Don't you think someone may have seen a man who's been shot and said something?"

"He's either lying low, rode out after we did, or has an accomplice, which I doubt," Holmes says as they exit the building and make their way around to the street. Then his tone shifts as he continues, "After we catch our man, Doctor, I have a proposition for you." Watson just raises his brows in response. "My reasons for coming out west are not my own, I owed a very particular man a very particular favor. I won't go into the details now, but a man with your expertise would be very useful in carrying out this favor." Holmes let the silence settle over them again, giving Watson space to think about his proposal.

Then as he paused in front of the saloon, "So are you up for it, Doctor Watson? Would you like to see a little more danger?" he asked, a sly smile hiding at the corner of his lips.

Without missing a beat Watson gave his answer. "Yes."


	4. They Met as Different Species

**A/N:** This is really rather short, but it was an idea I wanted to get down, and I figured I'd give the few of you reading this something fun and small without much by way of plot; just a fluffy (literally) little story. As always, constructive criticism is always welcome, especially as this is unbeta'd (not unedited) and unbrit-picked.

Also, to my anonymous reviewer, I'm sorry my one shots aren't enough for you, but they're all that I have of these stories. I have one percolating right now that may end up substantially longer, but I tend toward concise storytelling so that's what these are.

… They Were of Different Species

Molly Hooper felt guilty for keeping a golden retriever in a London flat; he was too big and full of energy to stay cooped up in so small a space, but she loved John. To make up for her long hours at the morgue when he was left alone, she always took him for a long walk every morning and evening.

On one of these evening walks, as Molly gripped the supple brown leather of John's leash, the retriever trotted forward, his black nose snuffling along the pavement before pausing at the base of a rubbish bin, his overlarge paws coming to a halt. His lady sucked against her teeth as she tugged him forward. Giving one last sniff, John walked along and pulled ahead, excited to keep moving and finding a multitude of new scents.

As the happy pair turned onto Baker Street, John's ears perked up and a soft whine emitted from his throat. He turned his blocky head back to glance at Molly, his brows lifted in a pleading question and his fluffy tail wagging rapidly. Then he ran forward tugging on his lead, giving a muted chuff of a bark. Molly clasped her free hand around the soft leather that looped around her palm and leaned back as she noticed what had her dog so excited. A sleek black cat with a white chest and gloves was perched in the open window of a ground floor flat, a distinct air of imperiousness radiating off its lithe body.

"John, stop that," she said sharply. His floppy ears relaxed as he turned his head to look back at her and whined. Then he looked back and forth between her face and the feline in the open window while shifting back and forth on his legs, finally pulling again and prompting Molly to follow. She wrapped the lead around her pale hand a few more times, attempting to rein the nearly six stone dog in, and failing. "No, leave it," Molly said, trying once more to regain control.

John continued to drag his owner to the window, and upon reaching it he did little more than bark politely and sit down. The cat stared down at him with pale blue eyes before giving a curious chirrup and turning back to look into its flat. In the briefest moment a hand slid down the cat's back before it leapt from the window, landing gracefully beside John and reaching a delicate white paw up to bat at his muzzle.

"Oh, Sherlock," a tutting woman's voice came from the flat, "Come back in here." She stuck her head out the window and saw Molly, John, and her cat grouped together. "Oh, thank god, he hasn't run yet. Would you mind picking him up, Miss?"

"Sure," Molly said as she reached down for the cat, but to her surprise, John moved protectively in front of it, blocking the much smaller creature from view. She looked over her dog, and saw him sniff gently at the cat's head before licking it once. Surprisingly, the cat did not mind too much and, after shaking its head and circling around a few times, it curled up at John's feet.

By the time Molly managed to sneak around John, who was still sniffing along the cat's back, and pick up the small, black creature she very distinctly heard it purring. The gentle, rumbling noise stopped abruptly when she slid her hands under its warm body and lifted the suddenly flailing cat to the window from which it had leapt. But she found the window closed and the older woman gesturing from the doorway. "Oh, thank you, dear," the woman said as she reached for the cat, "Sherlock's usually so much better behaved, but sometimes he's just a little more adventurous than I know what to do with."

"I'm just glad John didn't chase him down the street," Molly said, followed by a nervous giggle as she handed him off to the woman.

"Me too," the woman said with a soft laugh of her own. She slid Sherlock into the crook of her arm as she extended a hand and introduced herself as, "Mrs. Martha Hudson." Molly gave her own name as she returned the lady's warm grasp. "Would you care to come in for a cup of tea, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"That would be lovely," Molly answered as she followed Mrs. Hudson into the flat, and John followed her in turn.

Soon, the water had boiled, Molly and Mrs. Hudson were seated across from each other in two wonderfully squishy chairs and chatting, and John had curled up on a rug. Sherlock batted at John's tail as it wagged.


	5. They Met in a Hotle Bar

**A/N:** I feel like this one is probably the most out of character for both of them, but it's where my head went, and I have a feeling drunk!Sherlock would surprise most of us. Also, my timeline is wonky, just assume John got invalided back much earlier. Also, this one edges towards 'M' territory, so if you aren't interested in almost sexy-times, feel free to skip this one.

And to **RavensPoeticSoul**, if I got enough feedback for a particular one shot and I can find a way to expand it, I'd probably turn it into a multi-chapter fic.

… they met in a hotel bar

Mycroft just could not leave anything well enough alone_._ Of course he had to bring his brother with him to the gala tonight in order to have a second pair of eyes on a particularly weasely MP, which resulted in nothing of interest since the man got well and truly pissed early in the evening and had to go home. Sherlock, feeling rather obstinate about his being forced to interact with his brother's colleagues had decided to indulge in the open bar in order to drown out the idiocy that surrounded him.

Near to ten, Sherlock felt his vision blurring as he stumbled out to the hotel bar, settling himself onto an open stool. The barman came over and quickly gave him the scotch he ordered. Sherlock then turned to his right and noticed that he had managed to place himself next to a blonde man hunched over a pint of Guinness. His mouth sagged at the corners and his hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" Sherlock asked, not as slurred as he expected.

"Excuse me?" The man said as he turned to face him.

"We're you in Iraq or Afghanistan?" '_It's a simple question.' _he thought.

"Afghanistan," he answered, "How did you know?" A bemused smile danced across his lips.

"You still wear your dog tags and you have a tremor in your left hand, hallmark of PTSD. I took a shot," Sherlock said. With that, he slugged back his scotch before smiling at the military man. "And I just took another one," he added with a giggle before motioning to the bartender to bring him another drink.

"Yes, you did, and I dare say that you've had more than enough for one night."The blonde then took the glass from the bartender before Sherlock could grasp placed the glass beyond Sherlock's reach before downing the rest of his Guinness. "Can I help you get home, Mr…?" he said.

"Holmes, call me Sherlock. And what should I call you, Doctor…?"

The other man quirked his brows as he answered, "John Watson. How the hell did you know I was a doctor?"

"Another shot," Sherlock said, "I'm very observant. My mother always said that Mycroft and I were perspicacious."

"Alright then," John said as he slid off his barstool unwilling to inquire further into the statement.

"You've just been dumped too," Sherlock added as he leaned down the bar to grab his scotch. "Mummy always said I had no tact." '_Granted, I could have said you fancy blokes too and that your ex was dull in bed.'_ he added in his head. Sherlock then tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth before placing a few notes on the bar.

"I'm not even going to ask," John said. "Now, are you staying here or can I call you a cab?" Sherlock wavered as he stood and John moved to grip his elbow, steadying the taller man. Then he slid his other arm around his back, supporting him further; a shiver ran up Sherlock's spine and through John's arm. Smiling, Sherlock let John take the majority of his weight as he leaned into the doctor. "Will you even be able to make it?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock said with a grin. "Oh, Mycroft will be displeased. Do you think you could bring me to the loo?"

"Yeah, sure," John said, steering him to the men's. "Please say you aren't going to vomit," he added as he pushed open the door.

"I don't think so; not yet at any rate," Sherlock said as John placed him at one of the urinals before averting his eyes. Sherlock then went about emptying his bladder as he spoke, "You have very blue eyes."

"It's been a very long time since a man has told me that…" John murmured. Upon hearing the zip of Sherlock's fly he moved them to the sinks and proceeded to wash his hands alongside the other man.

"I like your eyes. They've seen a lot of the world. And they're kind. I'd be hard pressed to eject someone with eyes like yours from my life," Sherlock said, and immediately mentally berated himself for saying something so moronic. He shook his head slightly then added, "I'm sorry, I'm being tactless again. I very rarely drink this much, but my brother dragged me here on a job and then it fell to bits and I went overboard in order to annoy Mycroft." Sherlock hiccupped as he reached for a paper towel, giving only a cursory drying wipe to his hands. "Could you take me home, John?" His pale fingers, still wet from the sink, stroked along John's bicep as he spoke.

"Yes," John replied as he shifted to put Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, "Of course, let's find you a cab." He then escorted Sherlock to the front doors and hailed a cab. After situating Sherlock in the back he was about to close the door when Sherlock grabbed his hand.

"No, John, I want you to take me home," Sherlock said, his tone both petulant and sensual. "Please," he said as he pouted prettily.

"Fine," John said as he slid into the cab. "Do you at least know where home is?" he asked his inebriated companion.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a huff. "Two-Twenty-One, Baker Street," he said to the cabbie, who nodded before pulling away from the curb.

"You're a right manipulative bastard, you know that?" John said. Then he rather boldly placed his hand on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock grinned a cheeky grin in response as he placed his hand on top of John's. They spent the rest of the cab ride in silence, and Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie when they arrived at his flat.

Upon entrance to the flat, John helped Sherlock up the stairs, but as soon as the door at the top of the stairwell closed behind them the taller man seemed to have regained enough of his faculties in order to press John against the wall and capture his mouth in an inquisitive kiss. John deepened the kiss, snaking his tongue into Sherlock's mouth as he trailed his hands over Sherlock's chest.

Making quick work of removing John's shirt, Sherlock attached his mouth to the doctor's neck, nipping gently at the pulse point over his carotid artery. John's hands moved fervently against the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, fumbling as he tried to push the discs through the tiny holes. Sherlock stopped the doctor's movements, quickly undoing the buttons himself before pulling John's palm to rest over his racing heart and returning his attention to the shorter man's sensitive throat.

John moaned before saying, "We shouldn't be doing this."

Sherlock pulled back and looked into John's face, "Why not? I'm pretty sure I read the cues right. You find me attractive, you're lonely since your girlfriend of seven months left you, and you need to connect with someone. I find you arousing and tolerable to talk to," he stopped, glancing around the cluttered sitting room, noticing the clutter of papers, books, and lab equipment that littered the flat. "Would you prefer to relocate to the bedroom? Would that make this more proper and less fucking-a-stranger-in-an-alleyway?"

"That isn't it, Sherlock. You're drunk, albeit a very eloquent drunk, but drunk nonetheless," John said. "I'm taking advantage of the situation, and it isn't appropriate." He pressed his hands against Sherlock's chest, half-heartedly attempting to get the taller man to move enough in order to step away from the wall. Sherlock refused to budge.

"I still don't see the problem. I'm looking for release, you're looking for companionship, and I am cogent enough to make decent decisions about who I shag. I'm not saying we should move in together tomorrow, I just want to let myself drown in you for the night." Sherlock then proceeded to lean the full length of his body against John's, pressing feather-light kisses to his temple as he worked his way back to his lips. John reciprocated, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair and keeping him tight against him.

Sliding his thumbs along the waistband of John's trousers, Sherlock pulled away from his lips and leaned close, whispering in his ear, "Good, has that settled your crisis of conscience? May we proceed with my aforementioned plan to fuck you senseless?"

"God, yes," John said as he let Sherlock lead him into the bedroom.

* * *

><p>John awoke to Sherlock draped across his chest, the brunette breathing heavily against his neck, pale limbs wrapped around his torso. Glancing at the clock—only eight-thirty, no reason to rush—he laid very still, bringing one hand to rest at the base of Sherlock's spine and the other to stroke through his dense curls. He was unsure how he felt about his complete ease with this man he had known for less than twelve hours. Something about Sherlock resonated with him. That and the sex had been mind-blowingly fantastic.<p>

But now was not the time to dwell on inexplicable connections and great sex; now was a time to relax and just be.

Just as John started falling asleep again, he felt Sherlock's arms shift as he ran his hands down John's thighs. "Morning," John said. Sherlock blinked at him for a moment before squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in John's chest. "I'll go get you a paracetamol and some water," John volunteered; Sherlock tightened his grip on John's torso.

"Sherlock, you're dehydrated, you need fluids or you'll just feel worse when you do bother getting up," John chided. Sherlock moaned against his shoulder, but he relaxed his hold on the doctor. "I'll be back in a minute," John said as he slid from the bed and after a perfunctory search of the floor he pulled on his shorts and padded across the hall to the toilet.

He found the painkillers and filled a glass with water quickly enough. Then he returned to the bedroom with his quarry and pressed two pills into Sherlock's open palm. Sherlock slid them into his mouth before reaching for the water which he sipped and swallowed; John refused to take the glass back from him twice, only accepting it once he had emptied it.

"I take it you don't work today," Sherlock said, sleep still fogging up his voice.

"Nope, I have nowhere to be, unless you want me out," he said with a grin, "In which case I have somewhere very important to get to right now."

A matching smile crept onto Sherlock's face as he said, "No, you can stay. I'm surprised to say that I find you just as tolerable to talk to sober as I found you when I was drunk." John sat down on the bed and Sherlock squished over to make room for him. He then took John by the wrist and tugged the doctor on top of him. "That's much better."

"Are you suggesting we have another go now?" John asked as he looked down at Sherlock's angular face.

"No. I just found the absence of your body heat unsatisfactory," Sherlock said. He then placed his hands on John's back. The pair stayed like that for several long minutes before John felt his eyelids growing heavy as he began drifting out of consciousness.

Then Sherlock's phone rang. John's eyes snapped open and he saw the mobile sitting on the bedside table. He grabbed it and passed it to Sherlock before rolling off his bedmate.

Sherlock glanced at the screen before answering. "Yes?—Lestrade, what is it?—How many do you have now?—Alright, yes, I'll be there shortly," he said as he disconnected the call. John raised a questioning eyebrow.

"That was my work," Sherlock said.

"And what kind of work would that be?" John asked as he watched Sherlock hop from the bed and begin dressing frantically.

"I'm a consulting detective; whenever the police are out of their depth, which frankly is always, they come to me. That was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. You know those suicides that have been in the papers? There's been a fourth." Sherlock voice dripped with glee as he relayed the information to John. "And this one's left a note." He finished tugging on a shirt and as he worked the buttons his eyes narrowed as he turned to John.

"You're a doctor, an army doctor."

"Yes," John answered, confused as to this new line of reasoning.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"You've seen plenty of violence, then, death…"

"Yes, enough; more than enough," John said as he moved to sit up at the edge of the bed.

"Do you want to see some more," Sherlock said with a glint in his eye.

"Oh, god, yes." John hurried to dress himself, pausing only in the search of a sock. A minute later he and the consulting detective walked out the door of 221 Baker Street and hailed a cab.


	6. They Met on a Vampire Hunt

**A/N:** This was my "for fun" writing last semester when I had a terrible creative writing class in which the professor didn't really know what she was doing and didn't have us do nearly enough real writing. I haven't really had time to attempt to edit it until now, so I am sorry it took so long to get up here. As such, thanks to everyone who has stuck around to see more of these and to everyone who has found it in the interim. And to everyone who has just found it because of the most recent posting, "Hello!"

Also, I apologize for any medical stuff I got horrifically wrong, I research, but not super extensively.

... they hunted vampires in the Victorian Era.

**London, 1888**

Doctor John Watson stepped out of the train carriage and onto the platform as a harsh November wind attempted to steal his bowler hat. Gripping the brim firmly, Doctor Watson strode across the platform and hurried to find a hansom cab. Just as he reached the road, ready to hail a cab, a tall man wearing a long, black duster cut him off.

"You are a doctor, correct?" the man said, only the faintest hint of a question in his statement.

"Well, yes," Watson replied. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Most assuredly not, but I know a medical case when I see one," he said gesturing to the doctor's bag. "Now, Doctor…"

"Watson."

"Doctor Watson," the man said as he fiddled with the silver chain of his watch, "I find myself in the need of a medical expert currently. Would you be at all interested in the work?" He raised a single, dark eyebrow as the rest of his face held its blank expression.

"What kind of work would I be doing, Mister…?" Watson asked.

"Holmes," the man supplied. "It would consist primarily of physical examinations. I am working a case and several of the victims appear to suffer from anemia. It would be most helpful to have you come and give your expert diagnosis. Of course, you will be compensated for your efforts."

"I am actually expected by friends, currently, and I really must go to meet them now, but if I could get an address at which to reach you, I'll call as soon as I am able," Watson said, an apologetic smile on his face.

"Not to worry, Doctor Watson," said Holmes, "I'll find you. Just keep your eyes open; you may notice something interesting." With a tip of his hat, Holmes bowed and turned, striding away with such purpose that Watson found it difficult to look away.

Just then, a cab pulled to a stop, and Watson hurried to acquire it, giving the cabbie the Lestrades' address and ruminating on the strange man he just met.

Upon arriving at the townhouse, Watson was greeted by a dark-eyed maid and ushered in to the drawing room where Mrs. Lestrade waited for him. "Ah, Doctor Watson," she said, "Mr. Lestrade will be so happy you've arrived. I've already sent Thomas to fetch him, he should be here shortly." She beamed at him, gliding across the room to meet him and offer her hand.

Watson bent down to brush his lips to the back of her glove. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Lestrade, an absolute pleasure. You've been well?" Watson finished with a questioning look as he finally released her hand.

She nodded, her gaze demurely downcast as she spoke, "Yes, I've been very well, but our eldest, Edith, has been feeling poorly recently. She's just been so weak these past weeks and you know how a mother worries." She gave him a weaker smile then, before turning at the soft clack of hard-soled shoes making their way in from the hallway. "Gregory, Darling, Doctor Watson has arrived."

"I can see that, Mary," Lestrade said as he stepped into the room. He first went to kiss his wife on the cheek before crossing to Watson and clapping him on the shoulder as he shook his hand. "Watson, my friend, it has been far too long."

"We've both been busy," Watson said with a smile.

"Yes, I know, and you've been abroad, but six years is much too long a time to go without seeing a friend. How was India, by the way?" Lestrade asked as he motioned for Watson to take a seat. The two men settled into a pair of armchairs while Mrs. Lestrade excused herself to check on Edith as she slipped out of the room. "So," Lestrade repeated his query, "India?"

"It's a beautiful place, hot and bright; I miss it, but it is very good to be home." Watson shifted closer as he asked, "Now what was it that you summoned me for, Lestrade? Your telegram seemed most urgent. I only hope I can be of help."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "There have been some very strange goings-on here these past three months. London is in an uproar because of the murders in Whitechapel."

"Yes, I had read about those; ghastly business," Watson muttered when Lestrade paused. "Those poor women, absolutely dreadful."

"I know, and that's not all. I worry for Mary and the children, of course, to think that butcher is still wandering the streets of London… But, additionally some kind of illness seems to be plaguing many of the young ladies in the area." Lestrade's hushed voice carried throughout the large drawing room, setting Watson's teeth on edge. "As you already know, Edith has been quite ill, as have several of her friends and acquaintances. Even some of Mary's circle have taken ill, unable to leave their beds much of the time because they are so weak." He shook his head minutely back and forth as he pursed his lips. "We've had doctors in to check on her, but none of them have a solid diagnosis. You were always top of our year at school; I hoped that my friend John might be able to pick up on something the others missed."

"I'll do my best, Greg," Watson answered softly as he stood. "Why don't you take me to see the patient?" he added a bit more amiably.

"Of course, Watson, of course," Lestrade said as he pushed himself to his feet.

Suddenly, the chime of the doorbell rang out and a few moments later the maid entered saying, "There's a Mr. Holmes here to see you, sir."

"Show him in," Lestrade answered, turning to Watson as the maid retreated to the front hall, "This is rather convenient, Watson. now you will get to meet Mr. Holmes. He is a consultant who is offering his services to any of the families of those afflicted with this strange illness. He believes he may know the cause, but he's remained rather quiet about it all. So far, I think I'm the only one foolish enough to take him up on the offer. Perhaps you'll know whether his services are worth my time."

Watson nodded, his eyes vacant as he only halfway listened to his friend. He gasped half in surprise and half in awe when the tall, dark-haired man from the train station entered the drawing room. Holmes flashed him a cheeky grin before saying, "Doctor Watson, I told you I would find you." He stepped further into the room, greeting Lestrade as well before adding, "And it appears that you have wandered into the middle of my case."

"It would appear that way, yes," Watson said, feeling suddenly hot under his collar as he tugged at his tie. "Or rather," he continued, his voice hoarse as though choked, "Your case is also my case."

Lestrade had let his mouth gape open as he looked between the two men. "Watson, how on earth do you know Mr. Holmes?" he asked, clearly dumbfounded.

Watson opened his mouth to speak but Holmes cut him off with a simple, "I happened to come across Doctor Watson when I went to the train station this morning. We exchanged words, and although I did not know he was the doctor you had called in to aid in diagnosing your daughter's illness, I offered him a position in assisting me with the medical side of this case." Then he continued on his way across the room towards the door leading to the rest of the house. "Shall we see the patient, then?" Holmes asked, a jovial smile gracing his features that even Watson could see was out of place.

Lestrade and Watson followed Holmes out of the drawing room, with Lestrade quickly overtaking the taller man and leading them up the stairs to a dimly lit bedroom. Inside, Mrs. Lestrade sat on the edge of a four poster bed, her back to the door and completely blocking the inhabitant of the bed from view. "Darling," Lestrade said prompting his wife to turn her head toward the door, "Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes are here to see Edith. How is she doing?"

"She's awake now, but her chills are worse than they were yesterday," Mrs. Lestrade answered. Slowly, she stood and stepped away from the bed revealing a wan, pale face, with sunken eyes and messy, dark hair.

Watson stepped forward, remembering the vivacious child who had tittered as she asked him questions about blood and injuries, and various infectious diseases while they drank tea and waited for more of the guests to arrive at the Lestrades' annual Christmas party. "Hello, Edith," he said as he approached the bed, "I'm Doctor Watson, do you remember me? I know it's been quite a few years since I have been able to attend any of your parents' gatherings…"

"Of course I remember you, Doctor Watson," she answered in a soft voice as a weak smile grew upon her lips, "Father was absolutely incensed that you had told me about that amputation you did. He insisted I would have nightmares." A tiny laugh slipped from her throat. "I think he is more afraid I'll try to become a doctor too." She paused for a moment while she tried to calm her wheezing breaths. "So, you've come to try your hand at diagnosing my illness? Many have tried, I wish you luck, Doctor Watson." With this she gave him a weak, joking salute and let herself rest.

"I shall do my best, Miss Lestrade," Watson said as he leaned over the bed, pressing a practiced hand to her forehead, which felt clammy, almost too cold when he had expected a fever. Then he shifted his hand, asking Edith to present her wrist, and with a slow, labored movement she produced it. Watson gripped it delicately, placing two fingers against the radial artery and counted: forty seven beats per minute. "That is quite troublesome," he muttered to himself before turning to face the Lestrades, "Have any of the other doctors diagnosed bradycardia, or is this a new symptom?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Mrs. Lestrade asked.

"Bradycardia, or abnormally slow heart rate," Holmes said, finally moving into the room. "I don't believe any of the other physicians have noted it, but that may just have been them writing it off as a weak patient spending too much time at rest." He seated himself in a low chair in the corner of the room as he continued to watch the doctor quite intently.

"Well, I'd say that her heart rate, coupled with low body temperature, general weakness, and her extreme pallor, would lead me to call this blood loss, maybe some form of anemia, but I've only seen reactions like this in patients who have lost quite a lot of blood."

"Doctor Watson, you're the first one to catch it," Holmes said, a warm grin on his face. "What else do you observe?"

Watson continued to look over the patient, her breathing slowing as she began to fade from consciousness. His eyes caught on a mild discoloration just below her jaw which he reached out to probe with his index finger. He could feel the slightest swelling and several micro-lacerations, so small and light they were nearly invisible. When Watson pointed this out to Holmes the taller man's smile grew more pointed. "And there you have it, Doctor. The one sign all the others missed; the one thing that truly tells us what we are dealing with here. The one thing no one is ever willing to believe," he said as he stood to cross to the bed and look at Edith's neck himself. "But you have seen the physical evidence for yourself, so why shouldn't you believe it?" he half-mumbled to himself.

"Why shouldn't I believe what, Mr. Holmes?" Watson asked as he glanced around the room. The Lestrades had huddled by the door, identical looks of confusion on their faces. Turning his attention back to the strange consultant, Watson added, "I'm still not quite certain that I am following your reasoning."

"Then I take it you have never read John Polidori's novella," Holmes said. "Pity, it would have saved so much time in explaining—"

"Vampires," Watson exclaimed, "You're saying this is the work of vampires?" He took a step back from Holmes. "No, it's just not possible."

"It is very possible, Doctor Watson, very possible indeed," Holmes said as he undid his necktie and pulled down his collar, revealing a thin, jagged scar running along his sternomastoid muscle, ghosting above the carotid artery. "I can very much assure you that we are dealing with the work of at least one vampire, if not more."

Watson stepped forward to examine the scar more closely, knowing that Holmes was quite lucky to be alive after being wounded in such a place, even luckier that it had healed so well. His hand reached forward to touch the hard tissue but he remembered himself and pulled it back to his side as he watched Holmes return his tie to its rightful position.

Lestrade spoke out, having finally regained his composure, "Mr. Holmes, are you implying that my daughter has been gallivanting with vampires? Because I can assure you that she hasn't been out of bed in weeks."

"It is very possible that she has no idea she's ever been attacked. And although we love to think we can determine a man's character by looking at him it is never that simple. Our vampire could be practically anyone and there are very few ways to tell." Holmes pursed his lips as he looked down at Edith again, her lungs gently rising and falling with each breath. "Based on the number of current victims I'd assume we have at least two working together. The Whitechapel murders point me towards another, likely connected to the others but feeding outside of their jurisdiction."

"But aren't vampires supposed to kill their victims? There haven't been any fatalities amongst Edith's friends yet, have there?" Watson asked, dividing his attention between Lestrade and Holmes.

"No," Lestrade said, "I would have told you immediately had that been the case." At this, Mrs. Lestrade turned to her husband and whispered to him. "Now, gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind moving this discussion to my study, my wife would like to let Edith rest."

"Yes, of course," Watson said as he followed the Lestrades from the room, Holmes at his heels. The three men found themselves alone in the study when Mrs. Lestrade excused herself. Watson settled into a plush armchair while Holmes practically sprawled across the davenport by the window; Lestrade paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. After several minutes in silence Watson cleared his throat to get the attention of the other men and asked, "What do we do, then? How does one go about dealing with a vampire feeding on the young ladies of London?"

"We have to approach this carefully," Holmes said. "With more than one vampire out there, we run the risk of retaliation if we do not eliminate them all at once. The most important question you can answer for me right now Mr. Lestrade is whether anyone new has joined your social circle recently? Any new gentlemen just moved into town or recently come into a murky inheritance?"

Lestrade wrung his hands in thought before he spoke, "There have been a few within the past couple months, but the most recent is Mr. James Moriarty. His family just bought a house in town a month ago and he and his personal… physician, aide, something, a Mr. Moran had just begun attending our social functions then.

"They are the ones we will have to investigate then," Holmes said, steepling his hands in front of his face in thought. "When will you next see them?"

"The next one will probably be the engagement party next week," Lestrade answered, his right hand gripping at the mantle as he leaned against the wall, his face flushed and grimacing. "His engagement party."

"They do tend toward the dramatic," Holmes said. "We will have to accompany you and Mrs. Lestrade there. I'm sure that won't attract too much attention…"

"Everyone certainly would expect Doctor Watson, as I'm sure the entirety of our social circle knows I'm having an old friend stay with me. You may be more conspicuous, Mr. Holmes. I fear people will be suspicious of the man who has been offering his services to the families of those stricken with Edith's 'illness,'" Lestrade said while Watson stood and moved to the bottle of brandy Lestrade kept on his desk and poured out three glasses. "Thank you, John," Lestrade said as the doctor brought him a glass. He quickly tipped back the contents, letting it slide warmly down his throat.

Holmes refused the brandy Watson offered him, "Slows the mind," he said before adding, "I doubt anyone will find my presence all that odd if you present me as Doctor Watson's secretary; an army doctor recently returned from India could hardly be faulted for having someone help to transcribe his memoirs. That and I have only offered my services, so far, to your family, Mr. Lestrade. I felt you and your wife would be more receptive to me if it sounded like I was a concerned citizen looking into the matter, especially after you asked who else I had spoken with upon our first meeting." He paused for a moment, watching as Lestrade strode over to the third glass of brandy which Watson had left on the desk and downed it in one swallow.

"I knew you were the only one to truly question the diagnosis of anemia, Lestrade; you were, in fact, the only family to call upon more than one doctor," Holmes said. Shifting himself into a more upright position, he smiled at the befuddled looks he received from his two companions. "Oh, come now, servants gossip when they see each other, it makes it rather simple to find out who is coming and going in the homes of the more well-to-do if one knows where to look."

"So you picked Lestrade out as the one most likely to help you," Watson said, his left eyebrow quirked upward. He perched himself upon his armchair again, staring at the strange consultant as he did.

"One can never be too careful in picking an ally when a vampire is involved," Holmes said as he pushed himself to his feet. His right hand clutched at his silver watch chain again before he finally pulled the device from his pocket and rubbed his thumb against its face. "Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have some preparations to make before the day is over." Holmes replaced the watch in his waistcoat pocket as he made his way for the study door. "Pleasure meeting you, Doctor Watson," he said as he exited the room.

"And you as well, Holmes" Watson called after the tall man. Lestrade, still standing beside his desk and the bottle of brandy, filled another glass and brought it to Watson. The doctor accepted the glass with a nod. "Well, Greg," he said, rather cheerily, "Today has been quite odd, hasn't it."

"Indeed," Lestrade answered, distress painted across his features.

* * *

><p>That next week, Watson found himself in the Lestrades' parlor with Holmes and a great array of rather medieval-looking weaponry. He grasped a large, iron nail, nearly as long as a railroad spike and asked, "What's all this for, then?" as he twirled the nail between his thumb and forefinger, "Do you really expect us to kill this bloke at his engagement do?"<p>

"If the opportunity presents itself I would like to be able to take it," Holmes said tersely as he plucked the nail out of Watson's grasp. "And we likely won't be using the nails; they're a better option when we come across the vampire while he rests, or in the case of a freshly killed victim, to ensure they do not rise. An iron nail through the eye of a vampire is one of the best ways to keep it in its coffin. Iron is important, pay attention to where it is because it could save your life." He laid the nail back on the table after examining it.

"But, I thought iron was supposed to repel fairies… Please tell me fairies aren't real, too," Watson said. His hands clenched into fists as he stared at Holmes and held his breath.

"No, Watson, fairies are not real," Holmes said with the slightest roll of his eyes, "At least not the kind you're thinking of; there are many powerful and inexplicable creatures in nature, but they are not tiny humanoids with wings." Holmes gave a light chuckle as he picked up a wooden stake. "But belief plays an important role in the world of the supernatural. To believe in something—just as happens with politics and cultural norms—gives it power. Cold iron has long been believed to harm fairies, ghosts, witches, and the like, that belief ends up transferring to other supernatural forces and beings, eventually it repels vampires too. It's the same reason consecrated ground and blessed objects work against them as well." Holmes tossed the stake from hand to hand, finally gripping it as though he were about to plunge its tip into the table. "Plenty of other apotropaic objects too, garlic, lemon, hawthorn, ash, oak, prayers, mirrors…"

"So that's why you have a crucifix on?" Watson asked, still confused. "And the silver, does that matter?"

"I'm surprised you picked up on that, Watson, very good," Holmes said as he set down the stake. He then pulled his watch from its pocket and placed the silver timepiece in Watson's hand. "Silver has taken on many of the same properties as iron. It won't flat out kill a vampire but it will burn him. And the crucifix isn't important so much as the fact that it has been blessed by a priest. Scientifically, I can't explain that, but it really seems to have an almost complete basis in belief and folklore."

Watson turned over the watch in his palm before handing it back to Holmes, his expression stern and stolid as he met the other man's eyes. They stood in a companionable silence for several moments until Watson finally turned his attention back to the table and asked, "How much of this were you planning on bringing tonight?"

"Oh, I already have my standard wards and weapons on me. These are for you," he said as he put the iron nail and a slim silver blade into Watson's hands. He also gave him a small flask of holy water. "That should be good for tonight, since I'm really only hoping for a reconnaissance trip tonight," here Holmes touched Watson's hand, prompting the shorter man to look up into his steel grey eyes, "Just remember, Watson, do not let yourself be left alone with either Moriarty or Moran. While vampires tend to prey upon the opposite sex, it could still be very dangerous." He pulled his hand back, letting his arm fall against his side.

Holmes then pulled out his pipe and set about the business of filling it from his tobacco pouch and lighting it as he turned away from Watson and strolled over to the widow as he puffed on the pipe. "Besides, as I said, I would like you to speak with the families of the other affected ladies," he said pensively.

"Why would they want to talk to me, Holmes?" Watson said, making his way toward the widow.

"Because you are a competent doctor and old school friend of Lestrade's. They'll love to get your expert medical opinion, Watson," Holmes said with a smile. "Also, you have a very open face, it draws people in, invites them to tell you their secrets," he turned to see Watson gaping at him, "Really, you never noticed it? Even Lestrade is more willing to tell me things simply because you are in the room. It's really quite fascinating." Holmes returned his pipe to the corner of his mouth. Then he glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "We had better go get ready to leave." Without another glance at Watson, Holmes strode across the room and exited, down the hall towards the front door. Watson gazed at the weaponry on the table for a moment before grasping the smooth hawthorn stake Holmes had shown him, and placing it inside his jacket before rushing to catch up with the strange vampire hunter.

* * *

><p>The Lestrades, along with Watson and Holmes, arrived at the Hooper residence at precisely seven o'clock; after being ushered into the parlor they found themselves immediately set upon by several guests—mostly women—who were intrigued by the unknowns accompanying Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade. Introductions were made with Watson doing his best to appear relaxed and Holmes easily hiding his disinterest.<p>

Watson soon found himself being escorted to a sofa and surrounded by a number of middle aged women tittering at him alternately about their minor aches and ailments, and the strange sickness affecting their daughters and nieces. As he listened and responded he cast several discreet glances around the room in order to keep tabs on Holmes who was speaking quite animatedly with an older gentleman in possession of a remarkable snow white moustache. When one of the ladies caught him at it she said, "Oh, I see your friend had made the acquaintance of Mr. Hooper." The mustached man began gesturing wildly at Holmes as he smiled before releasing a hearty laugh. "I've never seen anyone get along so easily with Mr. Hooper," the woman said, a look of surprised on her face.

"Holmes is an interesting man," Watson said by way of explanation. "He often does what one least expects."

The woman—Watson believed her name was Mrs. Turner—nodded before asking, "How did you come across Mr. Holmes? He seems an odd choice for a secretary."

"Old family friends: he has quite the way with words, so upon my discharge from the army I knew he would be the man to go to for help in writing my memoirs," Watson said, the lie coming naturally after all the times Holmes had made him practice it. The ladies all tittered over this information as they smiled at the doctor; he could practically feel them thinking, '_Oh, he's a doctor, and an army doctor at that, and still quite young, I have just the girl for him,_' and he didn't know if he would be able to stand it much longer.

"Well now," he started, interrupting their matchmaking thoughts, "When do we get to see the happy couple?"

"Oh, very soon," Mrs. Turner said, "They are to make their entrance just before dinner. It should be splendid." This then set the women tittering about the sweet Miss Molly Hooper and her luck at nabbing so eligible a beau so quickly, and how lovely the wedding would be and, 'Oh, won't the children just be beautiful with her nose and his lips, and their coloring is so complimentary.' Watson let himself listen, absorbing as much of the conversation as he could but knowing it was far less than Holmes would have retained.

Soon he heard a smooth voice from the corner, "Presenting Mister James Moriarty and Miss Mary Hooper," and everyone stood to watch as a handsome, raven-haired young man descended from the top of the stairs with a pretty brunette on his arm. Her dress was the same pale pink as the flush of her cheeks and she smiled brightly, all her attention focused upon him: Moriarty.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, Moriarty stopped and opened his mouth to speak, "Friends, thank you so much for coming to our party and celebrating with us. My dear, sweet Molly and I couldn't be happier and we are so glad to share our joy with all of you." He smiled in a way that made Watson think of fairy tale illustrations of wolves, his teeth just a little too sharp. Then Watson caught Holmes's eye and inclined his head slightly towards the happy couple; Holmes nodded discreetly as he toyed with his watch chain. Then dinner was announced and the party moved from the parlor to the dining room.

Watson found himself seated near the head of the table, not too far from Miss Hooper, and Mrs. Lestrade at his right, but Mr. Lestrade, Holmes, and Moriarty were all quite far away. So, instead he listened to the young lady speak of her fiancé, and how he had swept her off her feet when all the other girls had been fawning over him and he had eyes only for her. "He was just so gentlemanly," she said, "And he is so well read! We talk of literature, history, music, geography, anything and everything. It is so wonderful. My dear Jim, I really am the luckiest girl I know." Finally she blushed, realizing she had monopolized the conversation mooning like a schoolgirl with a crush, and began asking about her dining companions, and when she came to Watson he revealed that he was recently in India with the army, which turned all attention back onto him.

"No, really, I'm just a simple army doctor. Didn't even see any action while I was there, very dull business really. And tonight isn't about me; I'm sure that you will all get plenty of me with the Lestrades this season," Watson said as he tried to deflect the conversation. The pudding was brought in then, and everyone admired the lovely presentation the Hooper's cook had given them, with artfully placed berries and curls of chocolate. Watson had never seen anything so decadent or delicate that he was supposed to eat.

After dinner, when the gentlemen had adjourned to Mr. Hooper's study for drinks, Watson had settled on a sofa next to Lestrade, and Holmes leaned down next to him and whispered in his ear, "Excuse yourself in five minutes and meet me in the hall," before announcing that he needed a spot of air and would return shortly. Watson patiently waited five minutes, finishing his scotch before giving his own reason for leaving and finding Holmes in the hallway. The taller man grabbed him by the hand and led him to a small, disused alcove where he said, "Moriarty is definitely our man. He's very good at playing human, but he didn't actually eat anything tonight, just pushed it very artfully around his plate and kept conversation going enough to prevent his actually putting anything in his mouth. Vampire's can eat as we do, but it offers no sustenance and tastes of nothing, so they tend to avoid it. And he flinched away from the silver candle holder that his hand accidentally grazed and the skin that had touched it was quite red. It's the only explanation." His grey eyes gleamed as he spoke, a few stray curls escaping from his pomade-styled coif as he gesticulated wildly.

"And our Miss Molly has the same light bruising on her neck. It's very faint and difficult to see, but it is very much there," Watson added. At this remark Holmes smiled even more broadly before grasping Watson's face and pressing an ecstatic kiss quickly to his temple and exclaiming over his brilliance. Watson simply beamed in return. "So, what do we do now?" Watson asked.

"We wait, find an opportunity to meet with Moriarty and his man, Moran," Holmes answered. "It's the only way to do it, otherwise Moran will run, and I'm willing to bet he'll be far more dangerous if Moriarty isn't there to rein him in." Then he realized Watson's face was still between his hands and dropped them sheepishly to his sides. "You had better head back now, I'll be along shortly and then we can try to get Moriarty to agree to a meeting."

"Yes, of course," Watson answered, his cheeks a little flushed as he turned to walk back to the study. Once there, Lestrade clapped him on the back and quickly integrated the doctor back into the evening's conversation. Mr. Hooper was telling them all about a strike that had just resolved at his factory and the difficulty of allowing unions. Watson kept his mouth shut on the subject, knowing that his own beliefs about fair wages and working conditions in factories would not be appreciated by the businessmen in the room. Instead he let the conversation drift around him, accepting another drink from Hooper when it was offered and waiting for Holmes to return. His tall "secretary" did eventually stroll back in, saying that he'd gotten himself turned around on his way back and had fortunately stumbled upon a kind maid who pointed him back in the right direction. The others laughed, including Moriarty, but Watson felt uneasy, suddenly worried that someone would catch them in their sneaking.

Holmes settled himself next to Watson on the sofa as he pulled out his pipe and went about the business of filling and lighting it. Conversation quickly returned to monetary ventures before drifting to Moriarty's engagement, with several not-so-savory jokes being made about the comely young Miss Molly, her father feigning a complete lack of understanding as he laughed to himself. A few quick toasts were made, all of them now edging toward drunkenness, except for Holmes, who had abstained from alcohol, Watson, who was only on his second drink since supper, and Moriarty, who held a glass of scotch but had yet to actually consume any of its contents. Then, while the others were boisterously congratulating the bridegroom before the rather squirrely Mr. Anderson began singing and most of the men joined in, Holmes saw their opportunity and took it, leading Watson with a short nod over to the window where Moriarty had edged himself.

"Mr. Moriarty," Holmes said, "I'm not sure if you've gotten to meet my employer, Doctor John Watson, lately of Her Majesty's Army."

"No, we have not met, yet; not formally," Moriarty said with a grin. "A pleasure, Doctor Watson," he said as he shook the doctor's hand.

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Moriarty," Watson said, hoping his eyes did not give away the unease he felt upon grasping that cold hand. "I just wanted to extend my own congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, and I was curious if you were interested in a business proposition I have."

"Go on," Moriarty said, gesturing to his right rather noncommittally.

"I don't have all the details now, but I thought a young man such as yourself might be interested to get in on the ground floor, have the chance to increase his coffers before getting married." Watson held a vaguely neutral smile on his face. Holmes, who had stepped back allowing Watson to take control of the discussion and trusting his partner to handle the set up, let his arm press against the doctor's, hoping to embolden him enough to finish. He knew that just being in the presence of a vampire was unnerving, especially when one was attempting not to let on that one knew he was a vampire.

Watson cleared his throat as he continued, "I was wondering if perhaps you would like to set up a meeting for later in the week so we could discuss it."

Moriarty smiled, "I'd be quite interested, Doctor."

* * *

><p>A week later, Watson found himself following Holmes down a busy street at sunset until they stopped in front of a rather imposing door. Holmes knocked and the pair were quickly admitted by a pale, sallow creature who ushered them into the master's study. Inside, Moriarty waited with Moran, his dark eyes boring into Watson as he greeted the men. "Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, now what was this little business venture you wished to tell me of?" His tone was jovial as he spoke, lilting softly over the trills and laterals of his speech, but his eyes remained eerily hard, sucking in light like a black hole.<p>

"Yes," Watson began, "I've got a man looking to start up a mine, but he needs help with the initial investment." The lie was easy to tell; he did in fact know a man looking to purchase land on the African continent in order open a mine. He just didn't plan on putting any of his money into it or accepting any from Moriarty.

Watson had continued to let his mouth run on about the prospect as Holmes scanned the room. The vampire hunter then settled his gaze upon Moran, noting his almost disquietingly pale eyes and the way his pale, sandy hair, nearly matched his pale complexion. His pupils were black pin pricks in his pale grey irises, making his eyes appear almost colorless, and his pale lips were set in a grimace, as though he smelled something sour. "—Of course," Watson finished, "I understand completely if you don't see this venture as suiting your current situation, and if that is the case, we'll just be on our way." He made like he was about to stand before Moriarty raised a hand and motioned him back down.

"I am deeply interested, Doctor. I'm curious if you and Holmes would care to discuss it over drinks in the parlor?" Moriarty said with an arch of his right eyebrow.

"That sounds like just the thing," Holmes said with a smile, the kind Watson now recognized as his "charming smile." Together the men rose to their feet and Moriarty led them from the study; Watson felt a tingle run up his spine as Moran watched him move from the room, his gaze boring a hole into the side of his head as he followed behind Holmes. He swallowed thickly as he felt the gentlest touch against his hand. They had been over their plan enough times, Watson had felt more prepared for today than he had for any part of his army duty, yet now that they were actually in the den of a vampire he felt his mind buzzing with the many, many possible gruesome outcomes.

Moriarty poured drinks when they reached the parlor, and Watson accepted his graciously, but refused to bring the glass to his lips. Instead, he leaned against the side of a chair as Holmes countered, anchoring himself near the fireplace and closer to Moran, who he saw as the more immediate threat. Watson placed his hand gently against his side where he had secreted the silver blade Holmes had given him a week previous. He inhaled deeply before forcing another cheery smile onto his face as he watched Moriarty watch him. His heart hammered in his chest.

"Now, Doctor," Moriarty said with a drawl, "Let us get down to business." He walked slowly over to where Watson stood, an amiable grin on his face, "I have a few thousand in capital that I am looking to invest before my marriage, and I'm sure some of it could make its way into your friend's mine."

"That's would be splendid," Watson said, "I'll let him know that I've found an interested investor and get back to you with the prospects." He shifted his weight then, gripping slightly at the place under his coat where Holmes had secreted the flask of holy water, and Moriarty went rigid, his near-black eyes focusing on the doctor as his lips pulled back, although whether in a snarl or smile Watson could not tell.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, I honestly did not think you would do something as stupid as this." Moriarty's hand shot out, gripping Watson by the neck and cutting off his air. "I admit I could tell something was off about your offer, but I expected you to know better than to go into a vampire's den with so little to defend yourself with and only one compatriot." His fingers tightened at Watson's throat. "Moran, how are you handling the—?" he asked, turning back to face his man, and seeing Holmes holding a blade to the pale man's throat, a wooden stake ready over Moran's heart. "Ah, I see. I picked the wrong one."

"You did indeed," Holmes said, "Now release the good doctor, his face is starting to turn a funny color, and if he comes to further harm I'll end Moran now." Moriarty loosened his hold on Watson who quickly stepped back and wheezed as he felt his aching throat. "Are you alright, Watson?"

Watson nodded before coughing.

"Alright then, Mr. Moriarty, you've found us out, just as we found you out," Holmes said, pressing the silver blade against Moran's pale neck until he heard the flesh begin to burn. "You will go and sit down, and Watson will secure you. Then we will figure out what to do with the two of you."

Moriarty did as ordered, gingerly setting himself on a chair to which Watson tied him, binding his wrists together and his ankles to the chair legs. "Now, Holmes," Moriarty said, "Let's not do anything rash."

"I didn't expect you to protect him so," Holmes said. "It must just be the two of you then. Damn."

At this, Moriarty smiled, "Oh, now why do you say that?" His dark gaze bored into Holmes.

"I believe I'll be asking the questions. And it is just the pair of you; you'd have brought your third in if you thought we were at all a threat, which you obviously did." Then, without another word he plunged the stake into Moran's torso, the wound leaking blood as his pale visage shriveled. Moriarty released a feral howl as he pulled at his restraints, managing to free his hands before Watson could subdue him with his own silver dagger.

"You really did pick the wrong one," Watson said, his voice still scratchy from being choked. The vampire glared in response.

"Now there's just you, Moriarty. Just you and whoever is carrying out the killings in Whitechapel," Holmes said.

Moriarty laughed. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to disappoint you, but the Whitechapel murders aren't vampiric in origin. You humans have done a perfectly good job killing each other brutally over the millennia. Only the most deranged of my brethren kill in the… less discreet ways."

"How can you be sure of that? Just because you and your man didn't do it, how can you tell it isn't another vampire?" Holmes had closed in, his face much closer to Moriarty's than Watson was comfortable with.

"I have my ways, just as you do, Holmes." He quirked his mouth to the side. "Now either kill me or get out, because I'm not going to play twenty questions with you anymore."

"Just do it then, Holmes," Watson said while glancing around the room, "End his miserable life so we can get out of here."

"Not so fast, Watson, he knows something, I can see it in his face." Holmes pulled his silver watch from his pocket and pressed it to Moriarty's face. "You want the pain to stop you tell me what you know."

Moriarty tilted his head and looked up into Holmes's eyes, wild laughter bubbling out of this mouth. "You gave up your only bargaining chip too early, Mr. Holmes. You'll not get anything else out of me." He went silent then, lowering his gaze and staring straight ahead.

"Right then," Holmes shifted his grip on the wooden stake, ready to stab it into the vampire's heart, "Goodbye, Mr. Moriarty." He swung his arm forward, but it was caught in the vice-like grip of a pale hand, thrown back as Moriarty snapped his bonds and with superhuman speed fled the room. Watson made to run after him. "Don't! He's long gone by now. No point in exhausting yourself over it."

"What do we do now?" Watson crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against the door.

Holmes stowed his weapons inside his suit coat as he made his way over to the doctor. "Now we plan. We wait and find a way to draw Moriarty back out. He likely won't go too far, but he'll be lying low for a good while. Should be relatively safe at the Lestrades' but I have precautions we'll have to take nonetheless. Either way, we need to leave immediately, once we've burned the body." He moved towards the withered corpse of Moran, gripping the ankles as he waited for Watson to join him.

"Burn the body?"

"Only way to properly dispose of a vampire. It's possible Moriarty could have a way to revive him, but then, he likely would have taken the body with him had that been the case. Are you going to help me or not? Because I would very much like to get out of here."

"Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming." Watson grabbed the top end of Moran and together they carried it out the back door.

Soon after, they watched as it sizzled and cracked, the flames dancing over the bones, charring them to dust. Watson started, "So, Holmes—"

Only to be cut off by the vampire hunter. "Call me Sherlock. I think now that we're this deeply involved in so life threatening a venture, we can use our Christian names, don't you?"

Watson gave him an appraising look then. "Yes, I believe you are right… Sherlock. Do we leave now?"

"Yes, John, we do." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "But he'll be back. We must be ready when he comes."


End file.
